More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
And your family is my family, Emmy, so even if you weren’t in my bar, you would be my business. You’ve always been my business, and you’ll always be my business.”
“I bet Teddy had something to do with it.” “You can’t blame everything on Teddy.” “I can, I have, and I will.”
“You didn’t ask me why I came home.” “I don’t care why you’re here, only that you are.”
This was weird. Emmy and I were being weird. We had to stop being weird. Nothing happened. But it would’ve.
Teddy loved gifts—buying them or getting them, it didn’t matter.
“Why does everyone always think I’m sulking?” “You’re a sulker, Emmy. It’s what you do,” he said matter-of-factly.
Teddy “took care of it,” my first thought was that she probably cut off that guy’s dick and fed it to him.
“If you hurt my best friend, I’ll cut your dick off and feed it to you.”
I wasn’t very good at keeping things clean. Sometimes, it was just easier for me to live under the piles rather than face what might be in them. It wasn’t logical, but my brain didn’t really work normally.
“When I get the impulse to do something, it’s hard for me to control when everything is normal. It’s especially hard when I feel out of control anyway.”
Emmy Ryder was just…more. She was more than anyone was, or than anyone would ever be. She was kind and brave. She was also so fucking beautiful.
“Seriously, Emmy. It’s okay to invite a little positive chaos into your world.” “Maybe for you,” I said. Teddy loved chaos, but she could handle it. Teddy was the queen of rolling with the punches, or, when the situation called for it, punching right back.
“You look nice,” she remarked. “Any particular reason you’ve chosen to forego the ratty-ass t-shirt and hat you’re so fond of?” Ruthless. Teddy was ruthless.
Being an adult with sensory issues was a weird thing. How could I tell someone that if I touched a piece of chicken while the music was too loud and I could hear somebody breathing, it would send me into a spiral?
I kept an eye on Emmy throughout the night. Not in a creepy way–just in a “I really like you and think you’re the most beautiful woman alive” way.
The band was focusing on nineties country, and there wasn’t really anything that could hype up a bar like Alan Jackson.
“You are a fucking crazy person, you know that?” “Only for you.”
His eyes were on the road, and mine were on him. I took in his hair, which was so much more gray than I remembered, and his wrinkles were set more deeply. Worry was etched into them. When I looked at my dad, who wasn’t as young as he was in my head, the realization that time at Rebel Blue had kept moving even when I was gone hit me like a freight train.
“The older you get, the more of her I see in you. She was quiet, like you. She preferred to work things out in her own head, and she kept her cards close to her chest.” “Are those bad things?” I asked quietly. “No. They made her fiercely independent and determined. I loved that about her. When I met her, I’d never met anyone like her. I love those things about you, too.”
